East of the Jordan (A Logan Connor Thriller Book 2)

  EAST OF THE JORDAN

  A LOGAN CONNOR THRILLER: TWO

  by

  Micheal Maxwell

  Copyright © 2021 Micheal Maxwell

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Micheal Maxwell.

  DEDICATION

  For My Grandson Daniel

  Keep your eyes on the stars,

  Your hand on the yoke,

  And your dreams as big as the sky.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Please Consider This

  Excerpt from Tales of Yankee Power

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  For the first time that he could remember, Logan Connor was bored. He had no plans, nothing needed his attention, no one needed to be killed, and more importantly, no one was trying to kill him. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Someone was probably trying to kill him, but they hadn’t done enough work to find him yet. He’d learned not to make any plans when he discovered that his mentor, Titus Crow, was conspiring to kill him while he was on a mission. At no point did he think he would live to see the next day. What good are plans to a doomed man?

  Titus Crow was dead now, decomposing somewhere in the Atchafalaya swamp in south Louisiana. Logan and Sydney Firenca dumped Titus Crow’s body in the swamp over a year ago. The humidity and alligators likely chewed him down to bones by now. Sydney wanted to hunt down the other remnants of Crow’s network, but Logan declined. He’d gotten his fill of the spy stuff.

  For a brief moment, he thought he would train up a new guy the way Titus trained him. He was a smart kid with a grasp for math that Logan could only envy. A math brain like his translated any system into a series of rules. He learned new languages; it seemed almost weekly. Computer coding and hacking were just languages themselves. He picked that up quickly too. Eric Elias Stiner was the kid’s name. But after about six months, he wanted to test his skills in the field. That’s when Logan got cold feet.

  How could he toss another kid into the blender Titus threw him into. He was a kid when he met Titus. Logan never even tasted beer. Within two years of meeting Titus, he was dumping his body off the interstate bridge into the dark water. Logan killed more people than he could count, most of them no different than he was. He scanned every room for entries, exits, and potentially deadly weapons. At no point did he ever relax. No, he couldn’t do that to Eric.

  He cut the kid loose. He’d seemed disappointed. Logan used some money he’d snatched out of Titus’s network to pay for a full ride for Eric at any college he wanted. Eric wanted to stay at the University of Virginia. They’d said their goodbyes, and Logan drove south.

  Alabama seemed as good a place as any to stop. He’d only been to the Deep South once before, and that was to kill Crow, but he’d liked it. He stocked up on guns, bought an apartment under a fake name, and found a job.

  His mechanic’s uniform said Willie on the breast pocket. Willie Bryant was twenty-four, a college dropout, and an apprentice mechanic at Fully Auto in Stonewall, Alabama. He carried a cell phone with an Alabama phone number, but it bounced the signal through satellites and towers in about twenty-six countries before anything connected. He drove a 2012 Toyota Camry, the kind of car that the owner himself has a hard time describing.

  Willie Bryant opened a beer. No one knew it was non-alcoholic. He had a can seamer in his apartment he used every night after dumping about four beers out of a twelve-pack of Busch Light. He’d fill up the cans with non-alcoholic beer and seam them back up. So, everyone at work thought he was just one of the guys enjoying a beer on his lunch break. If they asked for one, he could even hand them the actual Busch Light. However, he couldn’t risk even the slightest buzz. A tiny buzz meant he missed tiny details. Tiny details like tripwires, pressure fuses, and gas capsules. Even as a retired spy, he couldn’t stop being a spy. A deer didn’t decide he was no longer prey; the hunter does that.

  His boss, Buddy Fuller, walked in, his big belly leading the way through the door. “Bryant, you on lunch?”

  Willie nodded and swallowed a swig of beer. “Yessir. On lunch until 2:30.”

  Buddy pulled out his phone to check the time. 2:05. “Well, hurry it up. We got a bay full of cars. Some woman says she drove two hours to get here for an oil change.”

  That’s odd. You can’t swing a radiator hose in Alabama without hitting at least ten guys who can change the oil.

  “Two hours?” Willie queried, realizing it was a question Logan Connor would ask. WIllie Bryant didn’t give a damn.

  “Yep. All for an oil change. I’d like to give her the dipstick if you know what I mean.”

  Of course, I know what you mean.

  Buddy tugged on his belt. “Yeah, she’s hotter than a cheap muffler. Came all the way from Troy.”

  Logan choked on his beer, a little bubbled up in his nose. He coughed a few times. “Troy?”

  Buddy shrugged. “Yeah, Troy. It’s down by Montgomery. Got a college down there.”

  Ohhhh. Troy, Alabama.

  Still, two hours just to get her oil changed in Stonewall, population 24,000? Two hours from Troy?

  Under the table, he crossed his ankles to feel the reassuring shape of the pistol he kept there. Well, two pistols, one for each ankle. He checked the time on his phone. He could probably end his lunch break just a little early.

  He walked out to the customer service area. and his fears were confirmed. His past found him, and it wore royal blue fingernails that came to sharp points, black leggings over thick thighs and wide hips, and a top that hung loose. She looked every bit the mom of 2020. Her hair was blonde, and her skin was so pale that her veins stood out on her forehead. She leaned casually on the wall and thumbed through her phone in a case that closed like a book.

  To anyone observing, this woman was just an average Alabama mom. She was distractingly gorgeous even with a twenty-dollar haircut, but other than that, she didn’t stand out. It was all a lie. This was Helen, the American spy who worked for Menelaus in Benin. She’d flipped on Titus and given up the entire operation.

  Logan’s suspicions were correct. Troy was a signal to draw him out. He walked over to Helen of Troy. She pretended not to notice him.

  He said, “Ma’am, have you been helped yet?”

  She looked up, and for a moment, her eyes just locked on his. She didn’t say anything for an uncomfortably long amount of time. Then, she said, “I’m taking a trip to Birmingham, and I want to get my oil changed.”

  Logan gritted his teeth. “There’s a lot of oil change places between Troy and Birmingham.”

  “Well, sure. Anyway, I took a trip to Africa recently. I went to Benin on a mission trip.”

  “Spreading the gospel, were you?” Logan snarked.

  Helen smiled at him. �
��I do count myself among His flock. While I was there, someone helped me out when I didn’t necessarily deserve it.”

  “Is that so?” Logan deadpanned. “How was the trip?”

  She returned the same look. “It was the bomb. Anyway, I went looking for an old friend who helped me out, and I found out he worked here. I bet some of the other people from the mission could find him here too.”

  Dammit. I’m blown. How? I was so careful.

  “What makes you think he works here?”

  She replied, “Not important. I was going to visit my friend, but I didn’t know if that was kosher.” She put a weird amount of emphasis on “kosher.” She then said, “Well, I guess he’s not here. You’re a real mensch. Oh, do you know where I can get a danish around here?”

  Logan shook his head. She shrugged and walked out the door. He took a moment of personal indulgence to watch her hips wiggle as Helen walked away. She must be about 55 years old. Some fineries get better with age.

  Okay, back to being a spy. He started decoding what she said. Unless she was in the habit of throwing Yiddish words into conversation, she was indicating something. That was clearly about Eric Stiner, the Jewish kid he was recruiting. And what was that about a danish? She was either looking for a pastry in rural Alabama, which was understandable, or she meant Denmark.

  Sydney was from Denmark. Sydney and Eric Stiner. Helen found him, Sydney, and Eric. If she could discover them, so could one of Crow’s old associates. Helen did him a favor that would likely save their lives. He needed to move quickly, though.

  He pushed open the front door.

  Behind him, Buddy barked, “Hey, Bryant, where you think you’re going?”

  Logan didn’t even turn around. “I quit.”

  He started his car and drove straight for the interstate. His apartment was burned, his job was burned, and he was burned. He’d need to ditch his car as soon as he could. He took out his phone for one last call.

  He dialed the number for Sydney’s satellite phone.

  She picked up on the second ring. He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard her voice. Not dead yet.

  She said, “Thank you for calling Corleone Pizza, home of the Clemenza. Tessia speaking. How may I help you?”

  Logan said, “Uh, hello there, yeah. I just got my pizza from you, and it was completely burned.”

  The line went dead.

  Logan flung his phone out of the window, aiming for a passing storm drain. He headed for Interstate 65. It was time to carefully ride the speed limit all the way to the Tuscaloosa regional airport. He’d hop on a propeller plane the size of a Ford Explorer, take that to some obscure airfield in the southwest, drive to Mexico, and then who knows. He still felt a little bit unsettled to not have a plan.

  * * *

  Sydney Firenca had a plan until she got a phone call from a dead man. The screen said, “call from Wolverine.” In Marvel Comics, Wolverine’s real name is Logan. It was a lazy codename, but Logan’s phone bounced phone calls through about seventeen different countries. Her phone bounced a signal through about twenty. The codenames were probably unnecessary anyway.

  He said they were burned. Sidney hung up.

  She looked around the room she was in. Okay, so I’m burned. Anyone in this room might know I’m a spy. They might know Eric is too.

  That would only help her so much, though. Sydney sat on a rug on a concrete floor. The room she was in stank of sweat and bodies. She wore white linen pants, a white linen shirt, and a head covering over her hair. She was happy to have the headscarf. It helped absorb her sweat. The temperature on the eastern side of the Jordan River climbed to over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. A breeze blew from east to west, blowing their stink towards Israel. It wasn’t much of a breeze, though. It was as hot as the stagnant air and felt like a hairdryer.

  About one hundred other people sat in the tent with her. The floor was a permanent slab of concrete, but the building itself was a canvas tent. Flaps were open at the back and roof to let air in, but that didn’t help much. Everyone wore the same attire, and no one wore shoes. The only piece of furniture was a podium at the front.

  Most of the attendees were Arabs from Palestine and Jordan. There were a few Druze and Yezidi from Syria. There were no Israelis, but the flock’s pride was a Jewish kid, Eric Elias Stiner. Eric sat next to her on the floor with his legs folded. He had glowing golden hair and shimmering green eyes. His mother was Jewish, and his father was not worth mentioning. His Jewish heritage made him a star pupil.

  Abu Kishaa walked through the open tent flap. He wore the same outfit with no shoes as everyone else. As he walked through the group of people sitting cross-legged that he called his flock, he would stop to hold someone’s hand or kiss a baby. He seemed to linger longest on the young women. Sydney must admit Abu Kishaa was good-looking. He was probably the best-looking cult leader she’d met, and she’d met several. Kishaa was desert thin with a well-trimmed beard and wavy black hair. He looked every bit of an Arab Palestinian.

  He made his way through the flock until he got to Sydney. She clambered up to her knees and took his hand.

  “As Salaamu alaykum,” he said.

  She replied, “Wa’ alaikum salaam.”

  He lifted her hand gently to his face and kissed the back of her hand. In unaccented English, he said, “I’m glad to see you still amongst the flock.”

  Sydney noticed his perfect English earlier. He must have learned it in the United States.

  He leaned over her and touched Eric’s hand. Eric smiled at him the way a little boy smiles when he sees his daddy. Sydney would have been lying if she said she wasn’t a bit concerned about Eric. Was he ready for this job? He seemed to be getting a little too drawn into the cult of Abu Kishaa.

  In perfect Hebrew, Abu Kishaa said, “Shalom. I am glad to find you amongst the flock.”

  Sydney didn’t know enough Hebrew to understand if he pronounced it with an accent, but he spoke it effortlessly.

  Eric replied with a breathy sigh, “I am honored to be in the flock.”

  He’s falling under Abu Kishaa’s spell. Logan was right; the kid is too sweet and trusting. His empathy makes him an incredible agent, but it’s also a severe liability. After this job, I have to bench him, she thought.

  Abu Kishaa seemed to float as he walked. He drifted to the front of the tent.

  In Arabic, Abu Kishaa began his sermon. “I’m sorry for making you wait. I didn’t know what I wanted to say today. So, I spent some time in prayer. I prayed for hours and hours. Then, like a thunderbolt, Chemosh spoke to me. The creator of Heaven and Earth gave me a vision. He said, ‘my one begotten son, tell the people about the false prophets. Tell them about the deceivers, the false witnesses, and the tempters.’ So, I come to you today to say there is a false prophet in the world. There is a snake in our garden.”

  Abu Kishaa reached behind the podium and pulled out an AK-47. He ran his hand over the wooden handle of the rifle.

  “This wood came from the cross of the Nazarene, another false prophet. He claimed to be the son of god, but I am the only son of the only God. So, I took his cross, and I made a weapon.”

  Abu Kishaa ejected the magazine and caught it in his hands. “You see these bullets? These are made from pieces of the Taj Mahal, the Hagia Sophia, Solomon’s Temple, the Dome of the Rock. I’ve plundered all of the houses of the false prophets. There is only Chemosh, and Abu Kishaa is his only son.”

  “There is a new false prophet,” he said.

  Someone in the crowd shouted, “Say his name, Only Son. Who is the deceiver?”

  Abu Kishaa said, “You will prove your love for me by killing this false prophet. Bring me his head, and you will be by my side in eternal paradise.”

  Another in the crowd shouted, “Tell us his name!”

  In Arabic, the crowd started chanting, “Tell us his name! Tell us his name! Tell us his name!”

  Abu Kishaa slammed the magazine back in his rifle. Calmly, he said in a speaki
ng voice that made everyone quiet down to hear him, “The false prophet is an American named Logan Connor. Our Lord Chemosh demands he die.”

  The crowd shouted in unison, “Chemosh demands it.”

  Abu Kishaa pulled the charging handle to load his rifle. “We shall kill Logan Connor and bring about Heaven on Earth.”

  Sydney muttered under her breath, “Damn.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Logan Connor didn’t know how he’d been burned. He was so careful. He kept a stack of United States birth certificates and social security numbers in a range of identities. They were all made by the best forgers he ever came into contact with. He’d called his mom and her new husband from satellite phones that bounced his signal half a dozen times around the world before eventually routing them through Missoula, Montana. That’s where they thought he was, so he’d routed his phone through there when he called them. They believed he was at the University of Montana. He told them he graduated in three years and was pursuing a master’s in Forensic Anthropology.

  He’d even sent his mom a diploma he paid the forger to make. His mom was so busy with her new husband and moving that she never bothered to come to his fake graduation. Photoshopping some photos in a cap and gown was enough to satisfy her. They were probably hanging in frames above her couch.

  He was always so careful. He didn’t contact anyone else from Titus Crow’s circle. Surely, they were looking for him. The spiders crawling his web of connections were always hunting for prey that escaped their traps. He was better than that, though. It must have been the forger. The forger either made a mistake, or she sold him out. The difference wasn’t significant. Either way, the forger was now a liability, but something in Logan wanted to know. Did he want to know so that he could get revenge if she did sell him out? That was an emotional response.

  Titus Crow used to say, “Vengeance is emotional. When you get emotional, you get sloppy. Sloppy spies are dead spies.”